Miss Elizabeth's Captive

Chapter Eleven

In the final week I denied Jamie any masturbatory relief and, unbeknownst to him, assured that the staff kept him well clamped with arms and wrists most taut. And then as the agony slowly built and his basic need for climactic relief accumulated, my instinct told me it was time. Jamie very much sought another kindness and I visited him in his dormitory cubical.

Evening visits to the dormitory area can be very entertaining, Sam, particularly for a teenaged girl with flourishing Dominance. As stated the candidates lie on a board, more like leaning back in a standing position, with straps holding each in place at the waist and chest. The board can be swung at the middle to a completely upright position, or for rest, swung to almost horizontal. The design imbues marvelous control, for with the merest downward push of a hand, a boy lying prone can be instantly put on display, his entire nakedness turned upright to face a counselor or other scrutinizing woman.

So the clinic masturbatrix, a rather stern matron with a most amazing hand, strolls into the dormitory and announces her presence.

“Who needs to be stroked?” she typically calls out. She has a list of the boys to be pleasured, of course. No candidate exhibiting disobedience during the training day is ever stroked, I can assure you. But she so much enjoys, and I also found delight, in watching the reaction.

Each boy knows that to receive her touch he must assume the required position. Thus, there is simultaneous movement of feet and legs, the boys knowing that the masturbatrix insists that the ‘ankles be behind the ears’, as the position is termed, before she’ll even begin to bring them to tumescence.

Yes, Sam, each cubical had a cross bar near the candidate’s head. And if he did not bend at the waist, pull his knees to his chest and hook his feet under the bar, there was no relief to be earned.

Can you imagine the sight? Dozens of naked buttocks with hairless genitals draped over puckered little rectums, all pining for the touch of a woman. And when satisfied that a boy is properly displaying himself, she begins. The gloved left hand applying lubricant to the anus, her uncovered right hand diddling the penis. It’s amazing to watch Sam. The woman was an expert, within a minute bringing each boy to full erection, fingering his little prostate and then just before ejaculation withdrawing to move to the next boy. She labored with the focus of an assembly line worker, lubricating, penetrating, stroking, sensing for the pending orgasm and then stepping to the next cubical. Rarely was a boy brought to full climax. Unbeknownst to the candidates, her real duty was to add to the frustration and the feeling of helplessness. She was adept at so doing.

So I watched her ply her trade, recalling all the erections I had helped stimulate among the condemned at the Palace. Knowing that for some it was their last stand brought comfort. And that night so it would be for Jamie.

After watching the masturbatrix frustrate some half dozen boys, I moved to Jamie’s cubical where though he dutifully had his ‘ankles behind his ears’ and his thighs nicely parted, I explained to him that there would be no relief on that night.

“You’re not scheduled Jamie. But perhaps if we talk I can grant you one more kindness, if you agree to do something for me.”

With words well scripted by the clinic’s psychologist, we talked. Poor Jamie was in such pain and I sat with the key, dangling before him the simple little piece of metal that could relieve his suffering.

It was really such an easy task. By the time it was his turn, with the masturbatrix stroking away in the adjacent cubical, Jamie agreed to return my kindness. His balls. I told him I wanted his balls and thereafter there would be no more clamps or wrist restraints. And he nodded with such touching enthusiasm.

And so I loosened the clamps, adjusted the neck and arm restraints and welcomed the masturbatrix.

“Full climax for Jamie tonight. He’s going to become one of us.”

And to watch a boy ejaculate, knowing that it’s his last, and knowing that it’s his last because of my mandate, brings a very heady sensation of power. Complete dominion over the male, the soon to be altered male. The masturbatrix instantly had him standing. And I asked her to extend the pleasure…my one last offer of kindness for Jamie as an intact male. The stern matron smiled, kept Jamie’s erect penis bent downward and had him writhing...this time in pure ecstasy, unending ecstasy if she chose to linger. The woman was incredibly talented.

“Let me know when you want him finished,” she casually suggested as she stroked and stroked. And when I finally nodded, she moderated the angle of Jamie’s erect penis and he exploded...for the final time.

It was not much. At that age little real sperm is in the semen. But it was a wonderfully ignominious end to a brief life as a virile male, helplessly restrained, masturbated at my whim, climaxing under my authority.

That very evening I decided that it would be the right testicle first. After the masturbatrix completed her task, I worked the little egg back down into the bottom of the tiny sac and simply tied it off using a thin strand of wire, cutting off the circulation. For the next two days there was such psychological trauma with Jamie realizing he was slowly being altered. The gonad finally d

ied and then I tied off the other. By then Jamie had changed his mind, begging to be left intact.

“A deal is a deal, Jamie. You had your moment of pleasure,” I reminded him. And then I tied off the left, not fully tightening. I wanted Jamie to be slowly castrated…to maximize the number of days of declining maleness. I wanted him thinking of the superior female and the ‘dainty’ hand that was so easily robbing him of any opportunity for normality...that the power nature imbues can so readily be modified...that strength is so sadly evanescent. I wanted him to wallow in his ebbing virility while I took mental control.

Jamie was forlorn at first, moping about the basement clinic, many times at the end of my leash, as I smilingly walked him about while he was painlessly being castrated. Sometimes I wonder if the male is better off experiencing some overwhelmingly traumatic episode when undergoing alteration...one final agonizing moment. I read where the Romans castrated by crashing the testicles between two bricks. Simple, fast, cost efficient…and producing such a memorable and definitively painful event. One moment a feared male, esteemed by the female for his virility...the next a wimpish neutered beast, but useful to the fairer sex in such deviant but conveniently alternative ways.

But as the testosterone levels dissipated, Jamie began to respond with increasing joy. As the shock faded, his grief was put aside and I teased his subservient nature by explaining how much better he could serve me without the burden of administering to his own pleasure. As promised there were no more clamps. But as a precaution, his neck and wrist restraints were worn at moderate settings until the final procedure.

Days later, with the left testicle deprived of circulation, I assisted the doctor in removing the withered organs. Under local anesthesia, simple novocaine, we opened up Jamie’s little sac. He watched as I performed the ceremonial snipping and the tiny eggs were plopped into a waiting jar.

‘My new maid,’ I thought to myself. I was giddy with anticipation.

Liz interrupted her story. The soup had been consumed and Jamie had to retrieve the next course.

Chapter Twelve

Jamie cleared the soup bowls and returned to the kitchen.

“I think we can have you better dressed for dinner, Sam. Solitary wrist cuffs may be a tad informal,” she noted, smiling with her humorous understatement.

Liz arose and stepped to the living room. The doors on the armoire creaked open, there was momentary rattling, another creak, an affirmative closing click.